Dragon's End
by awilla the hun
Summary: A small band of loyalists fighting in Galbatorix's revolution. Now back online due to popular demand, with a revised chapter 3. Chapter 4 is in the works, and I will go beyond that with more reviews...
1. Chapter 1

My second attempt at a different kind of rider story. The Halberdiers one was too awful to keep in. So I have decided to change tack, and go for a very different tale. A band of loyalists in the war against Galbatorix, and their adventures. Intended to resemble Journey's End. So don't expect swordfights and magic. And if the language is dull, that is intentional. I'm not trying to convey warfare as an exciting experience, but as quite the opposite. The more futile and dull looking the better in my mind.

If I portray the war inaccurately, I must apologise. I just presumed that the Forsworn had some form of mortal army alongside them. I can't imagine twelve men taking on and beating a very large army, and loads of riders, without some kind of support.

The ballistae fired on. They were dwarf made pieces, some of the best constructed the world had ever seen. A shot was fired, the battery officer would bark an order, and another great bolt would be swung into the weapon, a handle would be cranked, and it would be readied to shoot once more. Occasionally, a bolt would be ignited with pitch, so as to ignite the enemy when it struck. But there seemed to be little evidence of damage being done from the bombardment. The rebel camp was still resolutely intact. Some soldiers suspected magic, others jeered at the crews, a few leant back, lamenting upon yet another failure of the Dragon Riders to end Galbatorix's attacks for good.

The ballistae fired on.

A soldier leapt up and shouted, peering through a borrowed telescope. He could see black specks in the distance. Two-no, wait, three of them- and growing steadily larger in his lens. Soon, others were watching, squinting at the grey, cloud filled sky. Soon, the wing beats could be heard, like dull thunder sounding against the great, barren plains.

A space was hastily cleared for the beasts to land in. Soldiers were ordered into lines, and snapped to attention as the dragons glided down. The dragons themselves were large: great, scaled animals, one emerald green and two ruby red. They were, one of the riders noticed, the only dash of colour in the landscape. Everything else was a dull grey- the sky, the land around them, the steel of chain mail and plate armour, the stone of the dwarf artillery. Even the men's' skin, what could be seen of it, looked drawn and pale.

The three riders stepped down from their steeds, and a soldier walked forward to meet them. He was an officer, a Lieutenant judging from his insignia, and looked well built under his armour. The hair was grey, and he had a large, hooked nose. His eyes, although alert, had rings under them, speaking of too many sleepless nights standing watch.

"Greetings, sirs," he said, bowing politely. His voice sounded educated, and somehow oddly laid back."My name is Ostmann- Lieutenant Ostmann of the 33rd Regiment of foot. It is my great honour to-"

"Where," one of the riders asked, removing his helmet to reveal pointed ears, "is Major Bronston?"

"Unfortunately, he is indisposed," Ostmann said, in the same drawl. "And may peace live in your heart -" he paused pointedly.

"I am Lithari," the elf said, not deigning to look down at Ostmann. "I am leaving my apprentice-" he pushed one of the riders forwards- "Ralont, with you, with his dragon, who goes by the name of Sylmentia. They are to aid you in completing the eradication-" the elf savoured the word- "of these rebel… scum."

Ostmann looked up sharply. "You are leaving Ralont with us?" he asked, an odd note entering his voice. "I only mention it because… well, the rebels have been occupying us for quite some time, and…" he lowered his voice- " there are rumours that they have a Forsworn with them."

The elf raised an angled eyebrow. "Have these rumours been confirmed, Lieutenant?"

"They have not been," Ostmann said. "But, for example, our bombardment is being stopped-"

"Foolish bombardiers, that's all!" the elf said, derisively.

"Well, I suppose that it could be that," Ostmann said. "And our last attack-"

"Was driven off and annihilated," the elf finished. "Do you have anything to suggest that it isn't just the enemy being intelligent? There was a fog, or so your reports said, which covered the whole area at the time."

Ostmann nodded. He knew better than to argue with a rider. "In that case, it is most likely some poor man with an ale bottle and a head for stories." Lithari nodded quickly. "And may I ask, sir, exactly where are you going after you leave us here?"

"The business of riders, lieutenant, is no concern of yours." The two senior riders mounted their dragons. "And good luck, by the way," Lithari called down, almost as an afterthought, and the two dragons hurled themselves back into the sky once more, leaving Ralont, the rider of the green dragon, standing alone on the landing area.

There was a silence for a moment, punctured only by the creaks and twangs of the ballistae, and the sounds of birds calling to each other. A wind swept across the plain for a moment, making the men shiver. The dragon- Sylmentia, Ostmann remembered its name was- rumbled oddly.

Ostmann turned to the line of soldiers. "Dismissed," he called. The men obeyed, relieved to get to the relative warmth of the camp fires. He then turned to the rider, who still stood awkwardly at the edge of the clear patch of turf. It was now churned up with deep foot prints.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ralont," Ostmann said, a warm smile crossing his face. He offered his hand. The rider, nervously, shook it. "Now, shall we see your face, then?"

"Oh. Yes. Thanks." Ralont laughed nervously, and pulled off his helmet. It revealed a pale, eager looking face, with a wide mouth and great jug ears. His black hair was tousled after the long flight, and he was perhaps a head shorter than his master. "Well, it's simply… topping to be here, just topping!" He laughed again. He looked young, Ostmann thought to himself. Very young indeed.

"It certainly is," Ostmann said. "Very fine indeed. Would you want to go somewhere warmer?" He indicated his long, winter cape. "It must be awfully cold up there in the clouds."

"No. I'm all right, thanks." Ralont paused for a moment. "And Sylmentia is, too," he went on. "She… she wishes to say that she is just as thrilled to be here as I am."

_But not in those exact words_, a voice said in Ostmann's head. He looked at the dragon, who seemed to nod her head politely.

"Pleasure to meet you, too," he said, slightly flustered. Ostmann turned and began to walk back to his tent, Ralont running alongside him. "So, my boy," he said, looking down at Ralont, "when did you get brought in? To the Riders, I mean."

"Seven years back," Ralont said, smiling about the memory. "The egg cracked open, I got chosen, and Lifari took me in." He paused for a moment. "It was a bit odd, at first. Elves don't care for us humans much when it comes to apprenticeships and all that. But we got on well after a few years."

"Is this your first assignment, then?" Ostmann asked, curiously, pausing to open the canvas flap of his tent, which contained a large trunk, a bedroll, and a milking stool. Ostmann sat on the trunk, and gestured Ralont on to the stool. Sylmentia poked her head in through the flap and hummed contentedly. This reminded Ostmann of something.

"Oh, good lord no!" Ralont laughed again. "I got taken along with master Lifari- dozens of times, scores! Always another bandit to subdue or a nasty Urgal getting all uppity. We-that is Lithari, Monteria, and Sylie and I, of course- had to tackle a renegade mage once! That got a bit hairy, but Lithari was frightfully clever. What he did, was-"

"I'm sure it was," Ostmann said, "I'm sure it was. But this is your first assignment… alone?"

Ralont paused. "Well, I suppose it is," he said. "Just Sylie and me. And you, of course," he added hastily. Ostmann laughed. "You're awfully good." He reddened at the pompousness of the statement.

"And the men of the 33rd," he added. "I'm not their commander, as such. The men call me Uncle, for some reason associated with my…ahem…comparatively advanced age, but I'm just a lieutenant. We serve under Major Bronston."

Ralont's face, if it was possible, lit up even more. "Bronston?" he asked hopefully.

"You know him, then?" Ostmann said. "He's tall- between you and me, I suppose- dark hair, and currently sports a moustache."

Ralont grinned. "That sounds like old Bronsie! We both came from Kuasta," he explained, looking and sounding slightly embarrassed. "He was such a topping fellow. He was good at all sorts of things! Football, climbing trees, wooing girls, running- he outran a deer, once, just for a joke, you understand. He was just such a good fellow! He was…" he thought for a moment. " an Elvish man, if you get my drift. I was as shocked as anyone when the dragon didn't open for him. We had a banner ready for him and all!"

"I'm sure he was," Ostmann said gently. He thought for a moment. Major Bronston was currently one of the finest leaders the Loyalists had. But now… "But you must understand, Ralont," he continued in the same tone, "that commanding men for as long as he has- seeing them fall in battle, and all that- has put a great strain on him. You may find that he has… changed, somewhat, since you last met."

Ralont nodded. "I'm sure he has," he said, not looking downhearted in the slightest.

There was another uneasy silence. The ballistae fired twice more. A trumpet blew, and men could be heard marching up to their posts. Slowly, Ostmann reached into the trunk and produced a bottle containing an amber liquid. "Brandy?" he asked.

Ralont jumped with the sudden noise. "Oh, no thanks," he said. And then "Bronston wouldn't like me to have it."

How things have changed, Ostmann thought to himself. "He does have quite a temper," he said evasively.

Ralont nodded. "That hasn't changed then. I remember when he gave a few lads half a dozen with a birch tree branch for drinking below twelve years! He was very proper about our health, he was. Oh, I'm sixteen, by the way," he added, before rummaging around and pouring himself a queer, clear liquid out of an ornate crystal bottle.

Ostmann nodded to himself, and poured himself a glass. "Well," he said, raising it, "here's to victory!" The glasses chinked together, and were drunk in one.

Sylmentia's head sharply withdrew from the tent. There was a growl, a cry of "What the blazes!" and the sound of a tray falling to the ground. Ostmann sighed and strode out of the tent, Ralont following excitedly.

The green dragon had pinned two men to the ground, both squirming and trying to force her massive, taloned paw off them. One was short and rotund, sporting a large black moustache on his red face. The other was his opposite- tall, almost gaunt, and judging from the stew spilled on his chest; he had been the one carrying the tray. "Ralont," Ostmann muttered, trying hard not to laugh, "could you perhaps ask Sylmentia to stop assaulting our batallion chef and Lieutenant Walker? They are somewhat disinclined to let that sort of thing happen."

"Oh, yes! I'm sorry about that, chaps," Ralont called, trying to shout over the dragon's roars. "She gets terribly frisky after the flight and all that." He concentrated, and then laughed at something Sylmentia said. The dragon raised the hand, and the two men staggered back to their feet.

"Lord!" the fat one said, dusting himself down. "That gave me a right turn, make no mistake!" He had a decidedly lower class, urban accent. He turned to the thin man. "That's another dinner done with, 'ochrane!"

"It wasn't my fault, sir," the thin man protested. "I didn't know the dragon was there, sir, no sir, not at all! Shall I make another one then, sir?"

"You bleedin' well should!" The fat one noticed the two men watching. "Oh, didn't see you there, Mister Rider. The name's Walker-Lieutenant Walker. And that's Cochrane," he added, pointing at the thin man, "our chef." Cochrane gave two brief "How do you do"s, before scampering off towards the cook tents.

"Hullo, Lieutenant Walker," Ralont said. "I'm Ralont, and this is Sylmentia." He paused for another moment. "She says she's frightfully sorry, but she thought you were assassains."

"The cheek! Still, no harm done." Walker gave a crushing handshake to Ralont, and then turned to Ostmann. "Now, do you have any of that liquor of yours, Uncle? I'm right well parched, and the pay just doesn't stretch these days."

"I'm afraid that I just finished it," Ostmann said apologetically. Walker sighed. "Toasting with Ralont here."

"Ah. Never does to defy a rider, does it? They may have you hanged, and drawn, and quartered, and all sorts!" Walker laughed, and Ralont uncertainly joined in. "Still, best be off. Pickets to see and all that. Cheero!"

It was odd how punctual he now was, Ostmann thought to himself. "Cheerio!" he said. Ralont said the same.

The sun was now beginning to set, but none on the great, bleak plains could see that due to the clouds. The air slowly began to grow colder and darker. Ostmann helped Ralont to pitch his tent, for this wind was beginning to quicken, and then wished him a good night.

The ballistae fired on.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the review, The Lone Hunter. I don't seem to be getting many, for some reason. I can't think why. I mean, it was about time that the Eragon section had a story which isn't BOOK 3 predictions, humour, child abuse with Murtagh and Morzan or teh kewlest new rider! (often based on the author) As you may have noticed, I am beginning to lose my temper about this business, so I'll stop ranting and get writing instead.

And before anyone criticises me for giving Ralont a watch, remember that this was before Galbatorix's revolution, and that he apparently burned several libraries in it, and that as a rider, he of all people would have access to such a thing.

--

The night was a cold one, and almost pitch black. Men huddled around fires. A soldier looked up. "Bloody cold, ain't it?"

His friend nodded. "Aye. Colder than a damned elf maid's heart." There was general sombre agreement around the fire. "Did I tell you about that one?"

"Yes, sarge," the squad chorused instinctively.

"Did I? Must be getting old." The sergeant leaned back and lit his pipe. "Funny old world, this." He said. The others nodded. "We were all born within about five goddamn years of each other. Myself excepted, of course. We all lived together, laughed together, grew up together, chased to girls together. And now the gods put us all on a plain together, all bleak and forsaken, with nothing but mist and you bastards for company. And then we wake up, and kill each other. Bloody weird life." The pipe was filled and puffed on pensively. "Good weed, this," the sergeant said. "Anyone want some?"

The tobacco pouch was emptied in seconds, and the night wore on.

And, if one was to look across the lines, to the other side of the war, a man could be seen, leaning against his green dragon. His tent was nearby, but he didn't feel that he needed it. He had all the warmth he needed, from his friend, his sister one might say. The world may well be locked in mortal struggle, but for now, at least, it was at peace.

There was a single large campfire for the officers, and the space around it was crowded. Men brought along whatever seat could be mustered- a rations box, a shield with sticks underneath or, in one man's case, a milking stool. Pipes were lit, food eaten, a dark man drank heavily out of a whiskey bottle. There was laughter, some of it drunken, jokes, all save from a single, hatchet faced man sitting alone, facing away from the others. Occasionally, he would be glanced at, jeered at or asked to join in, but he politely declined and continued to stare out over the plains. He was mad, some men thought. Others simply said he was faking, trying to get away from the hell of war. The black haired drunkard led them in the accusations, referring caustically to "the worm." The man on the milking stool provided a more sympathetic response, and there was sombre agreement. A call was made for more stew, followed by the traditional vomiting sounds as it was served.

The night wore on.

In high castles, riders looked out of their windows and stroked the heads of their dragons thoughtfully. All the scrying that need be done had been done. Orders were winging their way to the troops right now. The riders thought for a little longer. Had they been hasty in issuing out the plans? Could they have done anything else better?

Well, it was too late to differ now. They lacked the strength to project magical orders over this sort of distance, and all the runners had been sent to the nearest mages who could. All in all, there was nothing more they could do. And, if the first orders failed, there were always more soldiers. Always another battalion to be sent. The enemy would never succeed, they thought. It was obvious to all that they would be crushed.

Damn you, mine enemy, the commanders thought, staring out into the night. Some cursed Galbatorix, others wanted Vrael's head on a silver platter. But all, eventually, had their last goblets of fine wine, and retired to their comfortable beds for the night, with a footman waiting outside.

The next morning brought a glorious sunrise, a clear sky and, as it so happened, bacon for breakfast.

Walker yawned explosively as he staggered from night duty to breakfast. "Smells all right," he said as he collapsed down onto the offered chair. "Whole load o' fat there too." He looked hungrily at his portion as Cochrane laid it on the ground before him.

"That was decent of you, Cochrane," Ostmann said politely. The cook nodded quickly.

"Anything else, sirs?" he asked. "Anything? I notice that Master Ralont hasn't turned up yet. Would he be wanting anything? Perhaps a little more bacon?"

"I'm quite sure that he would," Ostmann said. "Perhaps a little more lean than Mister Walker's."

"I love it fat!" Walker said unnecessarily as he wolfed his portion down. "Doesn't matter at all! Lad needs meat on his bones!"

"It's so good that you like it fat, sir," Cochrane said, looking pointedly at Walker's paunch, before scuttling away before protest could be offered.

There was a brief pause. Ostmann gave a cough which sounded mysteriously like a laugh, before expertly spearing a piece of egg on his fork. "You know, Walker," he said, "that man may well be right. You are a little-"

"S' big bones, that's all," Walker said defensively. "My mother always said I had 'em, and she was never wrong, my Mother."

"I'm sure that she wasn't," Ostmann said soothingly, "of course she wasn't. But- Oh, hullo Ralont!" This was to the rider, who had just nervously walked over to the camp fire, plate in hand. "Here for breakfast?"

"Oh- yes. Hullo, Ostmann, good morning, Walker." Ralont looked for a seat and, finding none, crouched on the mud.

"It would probably be good if you could send for a seat as soon as possible," Ostmann said, straight faced. "I know a man in Teirm who does a good line in camp chairs. Too expensive for me, of course." He patted the milking stool he was mounted on and smiled briefly. "Helpful in keeping one's rear end from the damp, you understand."

"Rather." Ralont began to pile eggs onto his plate. Sylmentia looked at the bacon, and Ostmann wondered exactly what Cochrane would look like once he realised just how much a dragon ate. And then something else struck him.

"No bacon?" he asked, indicating the mostly full pan. "It isn't that bad, by our meagre standards."

Ralont shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "but when you become a rider, you- well, I can't really explain it. Ah… well, we just don't eat meat. I'm terribly sorry." He scratched an ear which, Ostmann noticed with a start, had become oddly pointed.

"That's all right," he said gently. "I'll just mention it to Cochrane. And, I don't mean to be rude, but what in the name of thunder happened to your ear? It's gone all…" He wordlessly pointed at his table knife.

"Has it? Really?" Ralont seemed thrilled. He felt it tenderly. "So it has! About time, I say!"

"What-" Ostmann concluded that it was queer thing which just happened with riders. He leaned back, and almost fell off the stool. Walker doubled up with laughter, and Ralont chucked weakly. "Clumsy of me," he said, joining in.

"Indeed it was," a new voice said. If any voice could be authoritative, it was this one. The speaker was tall, black haired and moustached. He looked at the peak of physical fitness, save the eyes which were bloodshot, and had great bags underneath them. "Our message mage has received new orders," he said. "I apologise for talking military business at table, but it is important."

"Indeed, sir?" Ostmann made a concerned expression, and began to light his pipe. "What do they say?"

"We are to-" The newcomer turned to Ralont. Then he gave a double take.

"Hello Bronston," Ralont said, a smile crossing his face. "Fancy seeing you here?"

Bronston recovered remarkably quickly. "Yes. Quite a coincidence, Ralont."

Walker looked from Ralont to Bronston, and then back again. "How do you-"

"We knew each other," Bronston said shortly. "A long time ago." He turned back to Ralont, with an odd look in his eye. "Your sister sends her regards."

"Oh? Are you officially together, yet?" Ralont asked. "We don't receive much news in Vroengard and that. I missed her awfully."

"Not as yet. Although…" Bronston cut himself off, and turned back to the rest of the group. "High command wants to receive more intelligence about the composition of the enemy forces. So we are to capture a prisoner, and interrogate him to the best of our abilities."

"I see," Ostmann said, producing a notebook and pencil. "Does it specify how we are to pull this off?"

"No. Only that we are to capture one of their men." Bronston looked for a seat, saw none forthcoming, and swore quietly. "Does anyone want to give up a chair of their own?" he asked. Everyone shook their heads again. "Damn it! War with chairs is horrid enough, but without them its bloody awful!" Bronston squatted down and began to pile food on to his tin plate.

"We all must make sacrifices," Ostmann said piously, from the comfort of his stool. He puffed at his pipe, and went on. "Would this mean a raid, perhaps?"

Bronston nodded. "They want us to get the information in the most direct method possible, and I doubt that Doctor Arkentius is up to it." Arkentius was the batallion mage. "We would require a detatchment of a dozen men, led by two officers. We shall also require a method of concealing the raiding party for enough time to grab the prisoner and run out of there before their men react too much."

Ralont was almost quivering with excitement. "We were taught," he began, and then he stopped suddenly.

"Go on, lad," Ostmann said gently. "What were you taught to do at Vroengard?"

"Well- Master Lithari told me how to make smoke." Ralont hesitated again, and then went on. "That could be useful, couldn't it? I mean- it would obscure our positions and- and that sort of thing. I remember-" he stopped again, shamefaced at the lack of response from everyone.

Bronston sat silent for a moment. And then, he rose and said "Are you not supposed to be on duty now?"

Ralont's face, before lit up about having Bronston- Bronston, of all people!- with him, now fell. "I forgot…" he mumbled, before producing some incredibly ornate looking device from his cloak. "I thought… I mean to say-"

"You have left the men," Bronston said levelly, "without a commanding officer for one whole phase of the sun. And this from a rider. You are supposed to be helping the war effort." His voice did not get louder, but it neither did it need to. Ralont looked ashamed, face red with humiliation. "You will proceed," Bronston went on, "to the fourth and fifth platoons of C Company, and you shall stay there until noon. Have I made myself clear?"

Ralont nodded, rose to his feet, and scurried away, muttering some apology to anyone who would hear. The other officers watched him go for a moment, and then turned back to the remnants of their meals.

"That was a little hard on him, sir," Ostmann said, once he had finished his bacon. "I mean, he's only just got out here, and-well, we all found it difficult to adjust to this business."

"He is a dragon rider," Bronston said, spearing a rasher expertly on his fork. "Not some young chap from Teirm, or Kuasta, with a shiny new King's shilling in his pocket and a wish to get himself butchered for glory. He should have seen some fighting before. Damn it all, Uncle! He's supposed to be our damned saviour, someone better than all of us. And yet there he is- just as I remembered him- eating bacon and talking and-"

"He's still only a child," Ostmann said. He still didn't quite believe how young the riders were deemed ready for action. "Barely older than some of the chaps I used to teach. Younger than some, I daresay!" He had taught, quite some time ago, at the Illirea Academy of Academic Excellence. "We can't expect that much of him, you know. He hasn't served in an army before. And…" He tailed off. Both knew that this wasn't the whole reason for Bronston's discomfort, and both men knew not to reveal it in front of Walker, although he most likely knew it too.

Cochrane bustled over. "I was just here to see if anyone needs anything," he began, and then paused for a moment, obviously embarrassed about the silence he'd just interrupted. He went on. "More bacon, perhaps? Sardines?"

"No thanks," Bronston replied. "I would prefer a cup of tea."

"Very well, sir. Anyone else?" There was a general call for tea. "And would Mister Ralont be wanting anything, sirs? Tea to warm himself up on duty?"

Bronston gave him a cold look. "If he requires anything," he said, "He will let you know."

"Of course, sir, of course. Well, I'll have your tea along in a minute, sirs." Cochrane trotted off, muttering to himself.

"I'll just be off then," Walker said, rising slowly to his feet. "I've got sentries to check, an' stuff like that. Cheero, gents." And with that, he stumped off, trying to buckle his sword round a wide stomach.

"Cheero," Ostmann called after him.

"Cheero," Bronston added. They both sat for a few moments after Walker had gone. An order was barked, and the ballistae were prepared for another day's firing. A bird began to sing, stark against sounds of men preparing for war.

After a while, Bronston produced a bottle from under his cloak and began to uncork it. The sound seemed to jerk the two of them back to their senses.

"A bit early in the morning?" Ostmann asked cheerfully.

For a moment, Bronston made no reply. And then he said "It's just to get me on my feet. You understand that, don't you Uncle? Just to get a fellow on his feet and ready to face the day."

"Yes," Ostmann said. "We all need that from time to time." He paused for a moment, and then produced his pipe. "It's a wonderful morning," he said, surprised. "We don't get many of 'em around here, do we?"

Bronston shook his head. "Nothing that I remember." He then turned, and called "Arkentius!"

A head emerged from a tent: a hatchet faced, pale skinned head. "Bronston?" Arkentius asked. "Is there anything wrong?"

"It's about the raid. What did High Command say about it? Word for word, man!" Arkentius was responsible for communication between the riders which formed the loyalist command structure and the mortals on the ground.

"Well-" Arkentius descended into his tent, and after a few moments came out with a scroll of parchment- "command requests us to gather information from the army designated as Galbatorix's Southern Army of Rebels, and this should be as thorough as we are capable. We are advised by one- Lithari. Lithari? Sounds like a rather odd name. Anyway, he advises us to use the talents of his apprentice, one Ralont to the best effect that can be devised." He collapsed the scroll. "That is all, save that we are to do it by nightfall today. And that Lithari may be joining us for a swifter conveyance of the news."

A ballista fired, signalling the beginning of the day's bombardment. Arkentius paled under Bronston's gaze. "That- that is all," he muttered, and then descended into his tent.

"You know," Ostmann began again, "that is a rather excellent idea. A good magical smoke screen may be what we need to make the attack. The men may be a bit suspicious, of course, but I'm sure that they'll cotton on after a good, solid briefing." He puffed at the pipe again. "A clever young chap, Ralont. Not a touch on those boys of mine, of course," he added loyally, at which point Bronston began to laugh bitterly.

"I knew you'd like him. Everyone did," he said in the same tone.

Ostmann nodded. "He is a very likeable young chap. And- ah, I believe that our tea is coming." True to form, Cochrane walked over to them, carrying a tray, teapot and mugs. He set them down on the now nearly deserted table, and began to collect up the used cutlery and plates. "Would there be anything else, sirs?"

"That," Bronston said, "would be all."

"Thank you, sirs. If you want anything, all you need to do is-"

"Ring the bell?" Bronston asked, eyebrow raised.

"Took the words right out of my mouth, sir! Good day, sirs!" And with that, he scurried off again.

Bronston poured some of the whiskey into his tea, and began drinking. He gulped down the first mug in moments, and then began to pour out a second. Ostmann was still stirring his own cup, and didn't comment. This was something that he had seen before quite often. "You know why he's here, of course?" Bronston said, laughing oddly. Ostmann didn't reply, so he went on. "It's his sister, you see. Madge. She sent him here, to have a good look. And he's going to write to her, and tell her about me, and about this-" he held up the whiskey bottle- "and then we'll all go west in the next attack, and then she'll remember me as the drunken sot she had once loved! Don't you see, Uncle?" and now his tone took on a more desperate aspect, almost frenzied, as if he had been wanting to voice his thoughts for a long time- "I know that they have a damned forsworn with them. I was out on duty last night, and I saw something- something huge, and terrible, with damned fire coming out of its damned mouth, and someone on top of it! Maybe it's Morzan! It wouldn't surprise me if it is! I've had my share of good luck- more than my share- not a man out here was here when I first came, save me, without a scratch- and it's only fair that I started to have some bad moments, too. You can't fight a rider, Uncle. They have magic, and talons, and red swords, and-"He took a deep breath, eyes flickering this way and that, searching the shadows. His cheeks were now oddly hollow.

"We can fight him," Ostmann said calmly. "Using the old ways. With pike and sword and bow. Our artillery can probably take him from afar, if it comes to that. And we have no proof that there actually is a rider out there, save-"

"Save for Ralont," Bronston replied, "who's only just out of damned training! D'you know how lethal Morzan is? Well, it takes a special type of man to try to take on the entire order with only twelve riders and an army, and he's doing that right now! Why, he-" with a great effort, he steadied himself.

"You're doing quite well," Ostmann said, trying to draw the conversation away from sinister riders. "A Majority and an order of merit! Vrael himself gave it to you! Isn't that something to be proud of?"

Bronston nodded mutely. "Only if you stay damned awake all the time. It was after that awful affair at Farthen Dur that I decided that I couldn't stay conscious. You understand, don't you Uncle?" Ostmann nodded dutifully. "So I took to the bottle. A hero doesn't drink himself through, Uncle. Eragon didn't get off his head on whiskey and coffee. But you can't just sit there and look, and work, and think, about all those fellows dead and dying, and-"

A tent flap was pulled back, and Arkentius's head came out once more. There was a cold silence. But, unabashed, he asked "Could I avail you of a candle, Bronston?"

Bronston turned, slowly. "A candle?" he asked, also slowly.

In the background, another ballista fired.

Arkentius nodded. "Yes. It's just that it's getting frightfully difficult to read scrolls in this tent of mine without such a thing. Especially with this headache I get after doing magic. It's quite bad, actually. And- so, that's why I need one," he finished lamely.

"Of course you can," Bronston replied, in a falsely cheerful voice. "I'll give it to you when I have a moment."

"Thanks." And with that, the head was withdrawn back into the tent.

"Doesn't the little worm get on your nerves?" Bronston said, as he sipped his concoction again. "Can I have a candle, Bronston? Can I have a sheet, Bronston? Mine's ran burned, you see, in a magical accident, Bronston. Can I have a bloody bottle, Bronston? Of brandy, Bronston? It helps with my magical cramps, you see." His voice was now elaborately high pitched and feeble.

"He does appear to be suffering somewhat," Ostmann said. "He doesn't change his excuses, so there may be something in that." He puffed at the pipe, only to find that it had ran out of tobacco.

"Bloody worm." Bronston was now businesslike, and his voice took on a purposeful aspect. "Now look here, Ostmann. We need to plan this raid. And that means selecting men. Who would you suggest?"

Ostmann thought for a moment. "Sergeant Jarsha's a reliable man. And his section are, too. Corporal Sloane's a daring sort, too." Bronston nodded.

"You do realise," he said, "that we'll probably never see any of them alive again." Doing a raid in daylight against a large enemy army was one of the most daunting tasks a squad could face.

"Ralont's magic will hold," Ostmann said. "Unless, that is-"

"Unless they have a forsworn with them," Bronston finished. They both went silent for a moment. "Well. That's one of the officers, I suppose. And the other would have to be you. I mean, look at the choices. We have Arkentius, worm as he is. And we have Walker, who is, let's face it, possessed of a weight problem. That just leaves you."

Bronston had expected objections. Swearing, cursing, asking it of anther man. But Ostmann just sat, nodded, and, looking away slightly, said "Oh, well."

There was a long silence.

And then, "Well, I had best go and tell Ralont then."

Bronston nodded, their eyes met for a moment, and then Ostmann rose and departed, nodding politely to Cochrane who had come to pick up their used plates.

A ballista fired again.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you, faithful reviewers. You may be few in number, but I will remember you all the more. Is this too "dull" for the likes of my esteemed colleagues? Well, the first battle is coming up. But, as I have said before, this is not a story for people who like swashbuckling and howling with laughter.

There was a regrettable pause in writing owing to lack of time and reviews, but this has been changed due to popular demand.

Good night, and good luck.

As it turned out, watching over the lines turned out to be far duller than Ralont had expected. The rebel troops seemed quite happy to lie in their hastily dug bombardment shelters. Occasionally, a magical mind flared up, presumably to watch the area, to see if the bombardment had done anything. Ralont tried to stop them, at first: it was simple enough. He would just look for the mind, find it, and jab it suddenly, and usually the wizard would stop, terrified and head aching, and no more gazes would come from that part of the line.

It almost became a sort of game, like Cat and Mouse: a spell would dart out, and Ralont, laughing, would swat it aside and dive in. The mages would try and run, putting up walls, but they would be broken through, a few appropriate vessels nudged, causing pain, and the mind would stop. Soldiers looked oddly at the laughing boy, just standing there among them. Laughter wasn't a sound heard often in the front lines of war.

But, eventually, even that began to get a little dull. After a mind simply stopped functioning, Ralont decided to stop for prudence sake, and because playing a very easy game of hide and seek could provide only so much entertainment for a man. He returned to his previous occupation of pacing and looking at the enemy lines in a manner which he hoped put across confidence and control. Back straight, hands behind back, that sort of thing. How one could manage that posture after all those years of sitting on milking stools was beyond him.

_With immense difficulty_, the familiar voice said, _and with much practice_.

_Sylie!_ His mind said as, true to form, the green dragon landed delicately next to him. The sentries turned, startled, halberds raised, before realising that she was on their side and turning back to the rebel lines.

_Of course, dear boy. _She hummed contentedly, and Ralont hugged her neck tightly, his arms only just reaching round. He smiled, thoughts filling his head: of how there was no finer thing than to be out here, with his dragon, fighting for the cause of the good, the right and the just.

_We've learnt a lot out here, haven't we?_ Ralont said, as they collectively turned back to keep watch. Sylmentia nodded, a little puff of smoke coming out of her nostrils, so he carried on. _I mean, this wasn't what I expected._

_More fighting, as I recall_, the dragon said.

_Well, yes. _Ralont mentally laughed guiltily. _Those elven legends don't seem to cover the pitching of tents terribly well. _

_Yes, _Sylmentia said. _A poet can wax lyrical about dying Urgals for hours, and never stops to refer to the heroic efforts of a certain rider requiring help to make his home away from home in a gale. _They both inwardly smiled ruefully at that.

_And about the people, too,_ Ralont said. _I thought- well, I thought that they'd be- more- well, I don't really know how to put this, but-_

_Constantly going on about battle and war? Either coarse and brutal or square jawed, blonde hair flowing in the wind, knightly armour proudly worn?_ Ralont nodded.

_They seem like totally normal people_, he concluded. _Well, Ostmann does. And Walker. And Cochrane. And- well, all of them, in fact. Only… well- I would trust any of them in a scrap, but I got the picture from everything that I have been taught that…_He took a breath- _only elves made heroes. There is us, humanity, being enlightened by the elves, and the elves, going out and doing heroic stuff, including us in that out of the kindness of their hearts. I have never read of a human hero in an epic poem._ He spoke as if he had been bottling it all up within him for months. _When we do turn up, we're just…well, funny, bumbling, loyal, but overall just arse heads. And I expected our soldiers to be like that. But they're just all decent types. I mean…_ he shook his head_ even after training for months, they still looked down their noses! Still regarded me as- well, like you to me, not meaning any offence,_ he said, patting Sylmentia loyally. _They never mention your lot in the legends, either, save as just loyal hangers on and all that._

_History, _Sylmentia said, _is written by the winners. And, it has to be said, the elves are a trifle good at that. They beat Palancar, and came close to beating us, too. They gained their strength, their magic, their courage. And we gained speech. _She smiled her odd, toothy smile. _No offence. I would rather have you than all the freedom in the world._

They both smiled, and turned back to watching.

"Excuse me," a voice said. Ralont turned round, sharply, hand going to his sword, only to see Ostmann standing there behind him. He was smiling, as if it was just a normal, sunny morning in Ellesmera, so Ralont smiled back. "Good morning," Ostmann said cheerfully.

"Oh, hullo," Ralont said. "A foggy morning, isn't it?"

"It is, rather," Ostmann said. He nodded politely to Sylmentia, who nodded back. There was a silence. A sentry yawned and began to light his pipe. Finally, Ostmann broke it. "I'm most awfully-" he broke off, and started again. Ralont began to feel a little worried. He was usually extremely articulate. "There's going to be a raid," he said. "And you and I are going to be leading it." He laughed shortly. "It's a most awful inconvenience. But I'm afraid that it must be done."

"And you were picked- especially?" Ralont asked, all lethargy gone in the excitement. "I mean-"

Ostmann nodded. "I was," he said. "And you were too, Ralont. You for the magic, and I- well, I suppose because an expedition needs age to lead it." He was smiling again, and to a more perceptive man it would seem that there was something slightly odd about the smile. Something forced.

"Oh, I say!" Ralont said, grinning and virtually jumping up and down with the feeling. "Will it- will it be soon?"

"Today," said Ostmann, "it will be today." And then he looked away.

Major Bronston sat, looking intently at two pieces of parchment, one of which was bare. Occasionally, he would look over at his camp table, at the inkpot and quill, half reach for it, and then let the arm fall to the other thing on the table: a bottle. A large, green, bell shaped bottle, which showed the signs of frequent use, as did the other bottles stacked neatly in the tent corner. A damned hot day, he thought to himself. A man needed his drink.

He then sighed, and shook his head, knowing full well that he was lying to himself.

The bottle was soon emptied, and cast away. A pipe was lit, and a hand reached out for the quill again. In the background, an officer could be heard bellowing at his troops to load the artillery more quickly.

The bell outside the tent rang dully.

Bronston stood, slowly. "Enter!" he called.

A head poked nervously round the tent flap. "Doctor Arkentius," Bronston said, giving an amiable smile. "What's going on in this great world of ours?"

Arkentius walked in, giving several brief, nervous grins in response to Bronston's unusual good cheer. "News just in, sir." He gave a pause, and ruffled the paper in front of him. "From the magical network. Ah… well, that fellow Lithari wants to come back all of a sudden. At about fourteenth phase. Wants to check up on progress against the rebels."

A silence came, and a silence lasted. "Go on," Bronston said, still smiling.

"Well… that is all," Arkentius said, looking at his notes.

"But you're still here," Bronston said, smiling. But there was a strange note in his voice, as if something he had long predicted was about to happen. He gave a pointed look.

Arkentius surrendered to it. "Well… there was something else, yes." He took a breath, and with an obvious effort looked Bronston straight in the eye. "I've got to go, Bronston. I can't stay here any longer."

Bronston looked surprised. "Go where, Doctor?" he asked, still amiably.

It was Arkentius's turn to look surprised. "Why, go sick! I'm getting these awful cramps, and suchlike, and they just drive me mad! I need to see a doctor."

"Why, Arkentius," Bronston said, laughing, "you are a doctor!"

"No, no…" Arkentius was obviously exasperated. "A doctor of medicine. Of matters magical, and so on… I need to leave-"

"Your request is denied," Bronston said.

"Denied…" Arkentius had obviously prepared for this eventuality. "But you see, Bronston- no, you just can't understand- I get these- these awful cramps whenever the enemy do anything- whenever anyone casts a spell- I- well…, it's really, incredibly painful," he finished lamely.

"It is still denied," Bronston said, in a voice of sweet reasonableness. "You see, Doctor- I have doubts that there is anything wrong with you at all. I think that, with this raid going on, you fear that the enemy are going to make an attack in vengeance. You may even fear the Forsworn being with them." He looked at Arkentius's face. The man was now looking at the floor, eyes screwed up. "You see, Doctor- I have a strong belief that you are simply going to walk away and desert. There is nothing illegal about this- the college of mages is not a military organisation, and there is little control that we have over you."

Arkentius summoned the courage to speak somehow. "Yes. Yes, you're right. There is nothing that you can do. Nothing you can do! I've got everything packed, ready, and-"

Bronston stepped forward and punched him hard in the face. "On the contrary, Arkentius," he spat disgustedly, "there is one thing that I can do. I just remembered." He punched again. The little man yelped. "You see, you have just admitted that you are going to desert. This means that, technically, you can be hung. Strung up twitching on a gallows. Or, maybe, even an inn sign, or a tree, or somewhere even more dishonourable." He let Arkentius lie on the ground for a few moments, sobbing quietly, and then dragged him up. "It would be a terrible disgrace, mind you. To see you die that way. And, in all likelihood, extremely painful, pissing your robes and dancing the hangman's dance."

Arkentius let out a little whimper at the thought, and started babbling through bruised lips.

"On the other hand," Bronston said, in the same, calm, terrible tone of reasonableness, "you could just be killed… by accident. I have here my knife, see?" He produced a stub of wood, and flicked it. A half dozen blades sprung out, along with a much used corkscrew, a small pair of scissors, and much else of a useful nature. "It is of a terribly new design, and I got it recently, see? And now I'm fiddling with it thus." He flicked it again. "It wouldn't take much imagination to tell what sort of things could go wrong with it. Perhaps a blade flies out, or a new one flicks open into your temple. It would be a terrible shame, and there would be no dishonour for anyone- 'Remember that poor old chap Arkentius, decent fellow, but got killed by accident. Such a promising young man' the mages would say." Bronston raised the knife to Arkentius's throat. "You haven't got long to decide, mind."

Arkentius now had his eyes tight shut again, muttering to himself. A ballista fired outside. And then he said, desperately "Go on then! Strike! Skewer me- and thank gods- no more pain after that-" He laughed oddly.

"Your time," Bronston said, "is almost out."

"Go on!" Arkentius called. "Strike, damn you, strike! Leave me in honour!" He was quivering now, gripping his robes tightly. If he had a spell ready, he didn't use it. Outside, a ballista could be heard, a series of ratcheting clicks as it was loaded.

Bronston, smiling to himself, lowered the knife from Arkentius's throat, and put his other hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Doctor," he said, in a matter of fact sort of way, now suddenly businesslike. He handed him a glass of brandy.

Arkentius stared, and collapsed weakly into a chair. "But…" he began. "But-" He gulped down the brandy.

"I know how you feel, Doctor," Bronston said, pouring out a glass of his own. "I've felt it myself. We all have."

Arkentius just stared. "You don't…" he began.

"Every little noise in the line, triggering it? Wanting, sometimes, to just sleep, forever, and ever, and forget all those dead friends that you've lost? We all get it!" Bronston looked at the brandy glass, and then back at Arkentius. "Stop blathering about magical cramps, and just tell me straight. It's just damned strain, and nerves!"

"But…" Arkentius began again. "That's part of it, but-"

"There is nothing," Bronston said, in the same matter of fact voice, "that I can do about magical cramps. Or anything that comes out of your staff. But I get the strain, too." He said it again. "I get the strain, too. We all do. And you are far more vital to this company than… than any of us! You provide us with communications, with healing, with… well, with everything! We cannot afford to lose you, d'you see old man?" He clapped Arkentius on the back with an enthusiastic smile. "When d'you next go up to the front?"

"My next round is… well, it's about now…" Arkentius produced a flamboyantly decorated pocket watch. "Yes, about now. But…" he began his argument again, but this time there was little in his voice. "It's- it's just so awful up there! I can't-"

"Suppose that I said that I can't- or that Ostmann said that he couldn't, or Walker, or- well, or anybody said that they couldn't. What would happen then?" Bronston raised Arkentius to his feet. "We'll go on together," he said firmly. "We all have a good chance of living- all the same- except that you have it better than all of us. You could blow a battalion away with the flick of a wrist, or whatever it is that a mage does." This was said without bitterness.

"All- all right," Arkentius began, before being steered by Bronston towards the front line.

A ballista fired in the distance.


End file.
